


Release Me

by drD



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 06:03:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20130550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drD/pseuds/drD
Summary: Hermione is looking for something. Whatever it is, it's not in Magical Britain, but a quick trip to muggle London might clear up her issues. Or, introduce entirely new ones, at the most unexpected places. Still, it's just a muggle club, a muggle bondage club. What's the worst that could happen?





	Release Me

Life marched onward, a constant heady thrum that knocked aside man or woman in the pursuit of endless change. Time was its own sort of magic, once able to be bottled but never completely controlled. It was supposed to heal, or inspire transformation. Why shouldn’t it? Distance should accompany a sense of numb acceptance, a sort of apathetic disinterest in the past. It had, to be sure. Magical Britain had done all it could to distance itself from the mistakes of its past and to be numb to the voices who’d cried out for change. They would continue to cry too, so long as the government felt content to push forward, hoping to embrace a stable future all but demanded of the people to supply.

Yet, Hermione thought it unwise to do so. She was pragmatic, she had to be, but not blind. She felt the world wasted, her talent ignored, and due to such her once vibrant outlook on the future felt tarnished. Greyed. Blackened. The idle day to day of wizarding affairs brought very little interest. The same humdrum groan of the populace was now grating to her ears. She needed more beyond mundancity and stagnation. But that was all that she’d been offered--

And the Weasleys thought it strange, Harry even more so, that she would choose to pack her things and go on holiday at such a poignant time. Still, though the war had ended nearly six years ago, she felt too much the same. Time had left her behind, sweeping away her friends and leaving her… emptied.

She wanted to be filled up with  _ something _ . Something that wasn’t Ronald, she thought bitterly. Though, there was no worry for that. He’d found other things to fill long before her voluntary absence. Still, it wasn’t him that had made her finalize her decision. It was just one more item among the many that swirled throughout her mentality. Magical Britain  _ owed _ her, but wouldn’t pay.

So, she’d have to do something else while she waited for her payment.

“It’s a secluded place. Cozy, if a little off feeling. Intimate, almost too much, but that’s the nature of these sort of clubs.” 

The voice to her left babbled on, too energetic, with too much sugar. Yet, the woman who escorted her had been kind and inquisitive. She’d known Hermione needed something difference, and she wasn’t so shy and ignorant to ignore the advice she’d been given. Not anymore. 

“Silk Collars will probably have what you need, it’s not the biggest club, not by any means, but it has an odd flare to it.” The woman continued, right before she handed her the card needed to access the space, “It’s almost like another world. With it’s own little traditions.” 

How ominous sounding, for a muggle space, but welcomed. Here, she wouldn’t be recognized. Here, she could explore the oddity of her cravings and wandering thoughts. Here, she might be able to shut off her mind and finally… be released from the rule of shifting time. 

She nodded to her companion, “Silk Collars is a pretty obvious name though, for a club of this sort.”

The woman grinned, something sheepish, “Cheesy, I know. Right on the nose. But I think the name came from a friend of the previous owner. Had a thing for the title, but nobody knows why.”

Hermione didn’t care enough to pry further. Instead, she drew the pad of her thumb across the gossy texture of the solid black card in her grip, over the raised letters, and stepped forward. She’d waited long enough.

“Have fun,” the woman at her back stated, with low intensity. 

How suspicious, that.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

The pulsing thumping beat of the music was invasive though difficult to follow. It was more distracting than attractive, and though it blared loudly over the nearby speakers there wasn’t a soul on the open space taking advantage of it. Instead, bodies occupied other areas, walls and booths and partitions kept private by the thick curtains that covered them. In a way the space was cozy, the dance floor barely large enough to fit a dozen persons, while most of the seating arrangement gave the illusion of privacy. She’d expected a bar of some sort, but there was a definite lack thereof. How curious. 

So she had nowhere to loiter, which was unfortunate, but no place to hunch over and hide either, which was better. She hadn’t come there to be a wallflower however and her courage wouldn’t have allowed for it, but she had wanted to observe a bit more before…

Before what, exactly?

She isn’t sure. Logically, she’d read about the club and the entire community surrounding it. Some portion of her, once dead and disinterested, had awakened at the prospect of something other, despite her original intention of just casual research. That had been startling but not unwelcome. She’d have done anything to stop the endless beat of static pressing in around her and the kaleidoscope of thoughts that consumed even her drowsy moments. 

So, anything had twisted into something, and that something was come here, to an exclusive club that a strange her readily held available. Incredibly convenient, too convenient even, but Hermione didn’t dare think to much into it, least she loose her gumption to explore.

Yet the club seemed empty. No, not empty, not exactly, but it felt like the section she was in was more facade than reality. Figures lingered in various states of dress, touching, speaking softly--the things Hermione had somewhat expected--and yet something important was missing. Passion? Intensity? A genuine sense of… what?

She frowned, bothered by it, but not sure what it was.

Then something changed. Or, someone moved. There, in the corner, a shift of leather and the twisting of simple skirts. Half shrouded in the twilight of shadow, the person rose from their taken couch with a sense of primal grace Hermione found ethereal. She took a sharp breath, held it, then watched as the figure, now woman, crossed the empty floor toward a nearby steel door. It was in that moment, where low lighting flashed across pale skin, that Hermione saw--

_ A dangerous smile, wicked and vile. A flash of teeth that seemed too sharp, saliva slick and ready. The echo of the wild yowling cackle of laughter, the sort to flush the skin and make the palms sweat-- _

\--perfectly placed cheekbones and a gaze of endless black.

Right before the woman swept from her vision past the steel door and into the hallway beyond them.

For sometime she merely stood there, staring at the closed door and feeling the rattle of her heart as it pushed against her chest. Her lungs felt tight, her breath short, and her gaze somewhat wide as the oppression of the past pushed against her flush. Heat rolled across her skin, hyper focused on the mutilated pigment of her inner left arm and in that moment she was far away, beyond the beat of heavy music and upon the cold chilled floor of an elitist manor. 

She swallowed once, then again, and closed her eyes. Overwhelmed. 

When she opened them she saw the front space for what it was, an introductory trick meant for those who were squishmish or just curious. It snapped to the front of her mind like the perfectly fitted piece of a puzzle. She was in a den for prey, and a predator had just left after a scoping. 

_ No, it couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be. _

But what if it was? What if demons had other ways to be sly. What if time and death were one in the same, easily slipped? Once upon a time she had trapped time behind glass and become its master. 

And she  _ knew _ death had one to. 

Still, to leap to conclusions was unbecoming. She was a woman of considerable brilliance, was she not? She needed evidence, a conclusion to this mystery and her own aforementioned cravings. If the woman who had haunted her so long ago still existed beyond her memory, that was  _ bad _ .

  
Still, she frowned, confused. What would her tormentor be doing in a muggle club of all things, dabbling in the arts of control?

She best find out.

She approached the steel door.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

No one stopped her from opening the door and stepping into the hallway.

Someone  _ did _ stop her once she stepped into the further room. 

“Name?” A woman grunted, dressed in a manner that might have been normal, were the leathers not so form fitting. She stood with the sort of airs of a guard, arms loosely folded and hair tied back and braided beneath a beret cap of black. Her legs were long within her pants, and her torso was covered by a corset that held her chest and yet she seemed so… official.

Hermione answered without hesitance, “Granger.”

The woman gave a tilt of head then spoke again, “Designate?”

At this she paused, “Designate?”

Now the woman stood straighter, hand forward, palm up. “Card?”

Her drawl seemed impatient, her tolerance slim. Hermione lifted the glossy card she’d been given and set it in the palm of her hand.

The woman smiled, something unsettling, as she flipped it this way and that. “I see.”

Hermione held out her hand, but the card was not replaced. Instead, the woman swept a hand to the side, and motioned for her to step forward into the eerily silent door filled space. The room was nearly pentagon shaped, a center with five doors against blank colorless walls. The quiet was… oppressive. 

Until the guardswoman broke it.

“Welcome to Our Lord’s Hortus.” The woman said with a gravelly husk. “The card is your designation. You’ll be made fit to present.”

All at once a thousand questions fought for freedom past her lips and yet none of them escaped as her hair was grasped in a harsh grip and her head yanked back. Above her wavering vision she saw the empty stare of the guard, and an oddly shaped device in her grip--was that a stamper?--but before she could even reach for her wand, her only defense despite her false-muggle status, the  _ thing _ was pressed into the side of her neck.

For a split moment she felt a sharp shooting pain before it faded, and with that fading came the removal of the device. She jerked in the grip of the woman, finally reached for her wand, but with a simple and unfairly efficient motion, she was shoved forward toward one of the many doors in the space. She never collided with it. Instead, it swung open as if it were automatic, and she fell into what felt like unsettling darkness. 

Right onto the softness of plush carpet.

“Omph!” Hermione grunted, face against the floor, neck aching, arm  _ buzzing _ .

“She’s here,” the woman said above her, “Servus Granger.”

Hermione struggled to lift her head, a curse on the tip of her tongue, fury rolling in her belly.

Until  _ she _ spoke, “Good. Enjoy your release time, excubitor.”

At this, the woman beyond her sight gave a soft sound--a moan?--before she withdrew with only a softly uttered, “Thank you, My Lord.” as she did.

Then the door snapped shut with an audible click, and she was alone.

With Bellatrix Lestrange.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

Fear, sharp and acute, hummed through her veins and hammered at her heart. Her lips felt dry, her tongue thick and heavy as her vision remained trained on the being that should have been dead. It was a primal reaction, the low beast in her being reacting to a large undeniable  _ impossible  _ threat. She felt chilled with the realization, the icy pluck of disbelief toying with her spine. She swallowed once, then again, and all the while Bellatrix remained on her throne of ivory and lace, slouched in a way that seemed both regal and childish. One heeled foot bounced impatiently over her crossed leg, and her chin rested casually against the palm of an open hand. She was haunting beautiful, had always been, and the dark of her gaze  _ pulled  _ at her with a startling uncomfortable force.

She felt small.

Exposed.

And that made her  _ feel _ . Angry, that is.

Breath hissed between her clenched teeth but she found the strength to stand on shaking legs. Bellatrix never twitched, never shifted, she only watched behind a veil of tumbled hair, the paleness of her skin reflecting the oddly placed lantern light. Indeed, the entire space felt off in comparison to the rest of what she’d seen. Modernism was not something that thrived in Silk Collars, but it hadn’t been missing either. Here, it wasn’t present at all. A fireplace is what supplied heat to the biting cold of the room. Lanterns that swung on curved hooks provided a spectrum of twisted shadow. The only ‘modern’ thing in the room was the buzzor box on a nearby wall, everything else was decidedly medieval in nature. Or, maybe, Victorian. 

If one looked past the stocks and pony and various other bondage assortments that lined the walls.

“W-what is this?” Hermione croaked, displeased by the shake in her tone.

Bellatrix gave a tilt of head in a manner that made the action appear inhuman. But, what had ever been human about the monster of Azkaban? 

Still, her lack of words infused Hermione with an odd sort of courage. Or, maybe that was the anger within her, the thick cloying taste of terror and rage that she, a woman who had often lacked feeling, could at least feel  _ that _ .

“What are you doing here? Alive? Why are you… how did you get here? What have you done to them?”

At this Bellatrix chest rose and fell as she released a sound like a crack of thunder, a harsh bark of laughter that seemed to bounce off the sweat-slick walls and cycle around her mentality. 

Then, she spoke, with a rolling husk that reminded Hermione of things best left alone in the dark. 

“Quiet.”

That one word, said with such confidence, pressed against her skin with the power of a loudly proclaimed command. She felt compelled to silence, and her mouth snapped shut at both the audacity of the order and the urging that filled her to comply. 

Or maybe,  _ maybe _ , it was because in that same breath Bellatrix stood, battle-hardened muscle flexing, and stretched before her, unashamed of displaying herself before her. Hermione hadn’t been able to see clearly, had been too shocked to notice honestly, but the woman was dressed in  _ very _ little. Around her shoulders hung an open robe, the collar heavily feathered with plumage of color twisting black. The robe itself flowed with an otherworldly sheerness, pulling the eye, begging to be touched. The skirts were gone, displaying a bare sex and long calves that disappeared into sharp stilettos. Honestly, beyond the robe, the only thing she wore was her trademark corset, though her naked breasts slipped over the top of it, unhindered and free in the space.

But her state of dress wasn’t all that pulled her gaze.

As she approached, one foot before the other, Hermione noticed the thick undeniable presence of  _ ink _ . Twisting swirls that flowed over flesh in an out of Hermione’s perception. Her mind fought to comprehend them, the shapes and symbols, and once when she swore she could read whatever was there--were those runes or a long dead language?--her mind would go blank, and her vision would narrow. By the time Bellatrix was before her, one hand--this also tattoo’d in swirls of black and symbols of strangeness--raised and pressed against her chest with the slightest of pressure, Hermione felt dizzy from her attempts. It was if some great chasm had opened before her, a fissure down the center of her mentality just waiting for her to jump into the darkness beyond and yet, instead of falling, she felt as if she might fly up and up and  _ up--! _

That hand moved, up and away from her chest with clawed fingertips until it wrapped delicately around her throat. Not squeezing, but letting her know it was there. Waiting.

Hermione revealed her wand, but couldn’t lift it. Instead she held it, breath wheezing in an out from between parted lips.

She found her voice again, “I’m not afraid of you.”

Bellatrix ‘hmm’d softly, and slowly licked her lips, but the shadows in her gaze churned with warning. Madness still knocked on the door of Bellatrix mind, waiting patiently for entrance.

The horrid danger she was in made her knees buckle in an incredibly inappropriate way.

With Bellatrix thumb on her thudding pulse, Hermione spoke again, “Why are you here, amongst the muggles?”

Again, Bellatrix was silent. Uncharacteristically so. That was more worrisome than the sweat that trickled down her back.

Still, “Aren’t they beneath you? To good for your pureblood flesh? Who was that woman at the door? The one who called you Lord?”

There were a million different things she should have said and even more things she should have done, and yet she felt trapped in a vindictive cycle of ‘why’. She’d come out for… exploration. To give up some part of her being. To release the constraints of her overburdened mind. How could Bellatrix exist, let alone haunt her from a space she could scarcely imagine any wizard or witch in, let alone  _ her _ .

She opened her mouth again, unsure of what’d she say, only knowing that she wanted to rant and rave and Bellatrix hand gave such a delicate squeeze that she’d almost missed it. And yet, still her throat tightened and her body trembled, held completely in control. 

This was so much worse than not feeling at all. Then being bored and drowning in normality. Now she shook from something else, shivered from the threat that held her and the silent implications of authority. She was in a strange place, held by an even stranger person, standing on the cliff of death no doubt. 

And all she could do… all… she could do was--

“The licentious dirt, on their bloodied knees, look up at me and sing.”

Hermione held her breath, lured by nonsense, trapped by lunacy, and Bellatrix hummed in her ear without melody or rhythm, in a sing-song tone that was less shrill and more deep.  _ Hungry _ .

“In one voice, with arms raised, they surrender, screaming ‘save me’.”

For a moment, Bellatrix was quiet, letting only the sound of Hermione’s heavy ragged breathing break fill their space. But then she spoke again, with dilated pupils, and a smile with too many teeth--

“And I sing back that I will.” Her other hand threaded threw her hair, tugging  _ just so _ , ripping a gasp from Hermione’s lips that both startled and shamed her. “Muggles are worthless slimy creatures, but clever, even cute. They need someone, anyone, to take them in hand. My mistakes are many, vast even, but I have learned. Oh, I  _ always learn _ .”

Teeth nipped playfully at the tip of Hermione’s nose and she fought to remain still in the grip that held her, knowing that she had her wand and that, if needed, she could use it. She  _ should _ use it. And yet--

“I’ve learned that they are eager to bow, that they instinctively desire it. They do too many things, you see. Speak to much. Move to much.  _ Think too much _ .”

Hermione shuddered.

“Then, the silly things overheat because they are overworked. They need release from that heat, from the pressure of acting like a  _ person _ .”

Now that laughtered came, haunting and ominous, high and low, different and yet still painfully  _ familiar _ . Something in Hermione tightened, fear and heat, sweet Merlin  _ why _ ?

“Muggles are beneath me, and they instinctively know it.” Here Bellatrix used her free hand to tap lightly at the center of her forehead, “You know it. I know it. They know it. The Parkinson squib? She  _ wants  _ to be put in her place. They all want to be put in their place, they  _ need _ to be, and Our Great Lady Arcana has given us all the chance to  _ know it _ .”

Bright red lips, a harsh contrast to the paleness of her features, twisted downward then. “Magical Britain is a blight upon our world. They lack finesse and control and I am tired of following Lords who do the same. It’s time for a… different approach. The muggles breed without reign, the mudbloods destroy without knowledge.”

Here Hermione snarled and jerked and lifted her wand, but Bellatrix was there, a hand once used to taunt her now tight around her wrist, while the other remained upon her neck, thumb still stroking along the pulse there.

“Oh muddy, shhh now. That’s it.”

And horrified Hermione found a different sensation replacing her rage, one of heat and brimstone that curled around her neck and settled heavy in her chest. She swallowed harshly, felt Bellatrix fingers flex around her neck, but couldn’t otherwise react when Bellatrix divested her of her wand, touching that one intimate part of her, holding it firmly, as if she knew how to  _ use  _ it.

And once upon a time, Hermione had done the same with her own wand hadn’t she? Using Bellatrix most sacred item, mingling their magics unwittingly, struggling to fight against the inky pull of it--

And as if knowing her thoughts Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and smiled all the more wickedly, “That’s it!” She cooed, excited, “Even you, mud-girl. Oh yes, especially you, understand the importance of surrender. Whether you yet admit it or not.”

_ Now _ that hand around her neck tightened ever so slightly, showcasing a strength once held back and yet not harming. Still, she used that touch, that control, to lower her to her knees, to force her to kneel, and seemed to glow all the brighter for it. “They serve me because they know, in some primal fashion, that they should and they  _ must _ . They submit, endlessly, over and over, and I grow all the more powerful for it, in my kingdom, my Hortus. You, and any other being, squib or mudblood or pure, know how to boy. You just have to relearn it, that imperative, and I know how to teach.”

Then she shoved her and the force made Hermione tobble. She flopped onto her back, surprised but unharmed, and felt the sudden weight of Bellatrix heel against her chest. Her copper skin was flushed, her breathing harsh, and between her legs pulsed the undeniable throb of perverse desire.  _ Yes _ , her body cried out sweetly, wet and ravenous. This was what she’d wanted, what she’d craved, and oh Merlin did she not want to give in, to submit to nonsense and madness.

Or maybe this was just what she needed.

“You’ll pay a pretty penny for it too.”

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

Hermione moved in a daze, stunned and overwhelmed by the implications of her discovery. She had unwittingly become a member of Bellatrix’s Hortus, her garden of slaves. The black card that she’d assumed was her ticket into Silk Collars, given by her  _ friend-- _ servus novem, Bellatrix had called her--had been nothing more than a consent marker for ownership to the beast that now hovered above her. The throb of her neck, the symbol that had been stamped there, was a marker on her skin that itched and warmed--magical, no doubt. She craved the touch of Bellatrix fingertips toying with the newly inked flesh there, or even her tongue or  _ teeth _ would be nice--

No, she mustn’t think that way, musn’t let the scenario spiral away from her and yet… just one look, one  _ good _ look at Bellatrix, and she melted all over again, softened beneath her heel in a literal fashion.

“You are servus nihil.” Bellatrix whispered, an amazon above her as she began to remove her robe, “just another pet, and yet… you and I have history, and I’ll be sure to treat you as such.”

She was breathtakingly wild in her partial nudity, chest forward and hips canted in amused curiosity. Against her hip sat a coiled whip of red leather, and the splash of blood-color onto accentuated her corset of black and the ancient stylistic ink that covered her own form.

“There is no Granger here. No Hermione, muddy. Only nihil, the servus. Nihil, the pet.”

Hermione pulled in a deep raspy breath, “I don’t… I won’t…” She blushed, swept away by the implication, driven deeply by her overactive mind and imagination. Her name? She would not give up her name, not this woman. She… she--

“You’re own mind will defeat you before I do,” Bellatrix snorted, an unusual sound considering her more lady-like airs, “How often have you done this?”

Done this? Run into her most hated enemy? Land on her back with a heel on her chest? Literally drip between her legs?

“N-never, I’ve… never.”

“You aren’t a virgin.”

Hermione stuttered, “W-well! That is certainly none of your business--”

“--But I doubt you’ve experienced a range of pleasure or submission.” Bellatrix muttered under her breath. “In all aspects of this, you are so pathetically Light and pure. But I know muggles, and I know you are just as dirty as the next. Let’s reveal your true self.”

“You can’t do this!”

“You entered a contract with me the moment you stepped through the warded steel door.”

That made her pause.

And in Hermione’s hesitance, Bellatrix pressed her advantage.

Slowly, she settled on the carpet beside her, heel removed only to be replaced by a hand on her chest. She kept her pinned to the ground that way before she leaned up and out of her vision, fiddling with something right over her head.

Hermione kept still, nervous, thinking--

“You think far too much, and ask far too many questions, nihil. That will be the first habit we break.”

“How dare you--”

A strange click interrupted her rant, and before she properly knew what was happening she found her arms tugged over and above her head, held down to the ground by a device in the floor and the soft leather of straps around both her wrists. When had she had time, when had she managed to--

“A servus does not need to think, I will do that for you. Likewise, a servus does not need to talk. Or they might get  _ hurt _ .”

Words died in Hermione’s throat and she shivered before the uncontrollable memory of her time in Malfoy manor. Bellatrix wild grin only confirmed that she knew her words had been impactful.

Hermione hated her all the more for that.

Then hissed when Bellatrix began to callously undress her.

“Don’t,” Hermione said, right before she jerked when Bellatrix slapped her inner thigh with an audible  _ whap _ !

“Quiet.” Bellatrix said again, patient, as hooked fingers sunk into the flesh of her thighs and parted them, right before she heard another familiar snap of leather restraints. It left her painfully aware of her exposure, painfully aware that she’d been divested of her underthings, and that everything--her scars from the war, the idle flex of her muscles, her sweat, and her… arousal--was on display for her capture turned…

What, exactly?

Not Mistress, she refused to believe for one moment that--

“You’re thinking again, and I’ve told you that isn’t needed.”

Hermione opened her mouth, and felt the sharp sting of nails against her inner thigh.

She closed it.

Bellatrix hummed with pleasure.

Then her hands began to  _ move _ .

Tense and still and held utterly trapped Hermione could do little than lay back and  _ feel _ as Bellatrix drew sharp fingertips along the moisture of her inner thigh.

“So wet already,” Bellatrix rumbled, satisfied, “I’ve barely touched you and yet you instinctively know to surrender.”

Hermione groaned low in her throat, turned her head, and tried to ignore how perversely thrilling she felt to be  _ bound _ , to watch Bellatrix pale hands traverse and explore her much darker skin. She parted her lips in consideration of complaint, but felt the wicked smack of Bellatrix hand against her thigh again and the sound exploded from her in a soft strangled moan of confusion. Pain danced alongside desire and prickled her flesh when those hands went back to exploring. Sometimes, Bellatrix smacked at her flesh anyway, just for the pleasure of seeing her curves ripple and not for any particular reasoning. She was… she was there just for her exploration, there just to be used and tamed and controlled and--

“Already panting?” Bellatrix taunted with an innocent inflection as her hands drove upward, away from her thighs and throbbing core and up to her arms and the _ mark _ she’d left behind. “It must be so hard for the wittle muddy servus to fight against her Lord, knowing that she was bred by those filthy muggles to submit…”

Hermione growled low in her chest, infused with her familiar anger, and yet even that was tinged by heat. She’d never felt so out of her mind with restless energy, so completely consumed by the want to rake her hands across someones flesh, or bite or… or anything!

She couldn’t help the slow sensual rock of her hips when Bellatrix leaned over, just the sensation of her thigh between her leg was enough to make her wanton. If only Bellatrix was a little closer, if only she’d press all that leather and bare flesh against her own.

“Rocking your hips, are you? Trying to hump me like you’re some dog?”

Shame must have made her flush prettily because the way Bellatrix licked her lips ignited a deeper flame in Hermione’s belly.

“No control. I’ll have to teach you some.” Bellatrix husked against her ear, before she drew her tongue, wicked and long, across the ink that lined Hermione’s neck.

She arched her back and moaned, incapable of holding back the explosive sound. Fingers toyed with and trained across the raised scar along her arm before they moved and held her neck steady, forcing her to  _ endure _ .

What  _ was _ this?

“Sometimes, a muggle, or some squib, is a bit too naughty, to excitable, and she has to be…  _ marked _ .” Teeth nipped  _ just so _ at her neck and flames licked between her legs again, stirring her body towards madness, making her clit swell and ache with agonizing sweetness. “I created this ink, the stamp on your neck, to show not only ownership, but to help bring out the True-Self. You’re reacting strongly…”

Bellatrix’s gaze glimmered with fanatical excitement, the sort of pleasure that must have infused any runes specialist or muggle-scientist once they made a discovery. “It must be the magic in you. Muddled you may be, I’m no fool. You burn brightly, blazing…”

Teeth nipped her just a little harder. Sharp, so damn  _ sharp _ .

“And all that pretty magic knows just who to submit too, even if your muddy little head doesn’t, pet.”

She felt something beat beneath her skin the longer Bellatrix toyed with her mark. Her gentle craving was now a raging near aggressive demand. Soon teeth and lips began to suck, and when they trailed down her collarbone to elsewhere, hands and nails toyed and scratched along the possessive ink. 

“To those other faulty Mistresses here, you will be marked as my nihil. They won’t mess with you, knowing to do so would be to anger me. But to you, and to every slave I own and command, I am your Lord.”

The ancient beat of her magic seared this as truth along her mind, and Hermione felt less like Hermione and more like… like nihil. Less thoughtful, less logical. She was becoming only need, and heat, and pussy.

“I like you quiet, slave. A servus should be quiet. I’ve better things to occupy that tongue anyway.”

Then a pause, “But not yet. Not until you’ve been released.”

Fingers swept lower, down away from the swell of her chest, past her nipples hard and beginning for touch, until they dipped low and played with the center of her belly. She croaked and giggled, unable to deny the strange flutter in her belly as Bellatrix tickled her. She squirmed as the older woman sat up, and felt consumed by their softer stranger play as she wordlessly muttered something and the thick cloying sensation of magic filled the space.

“With you, nihil, I can practice again. Though, between you and me, sometimes, when the muggles are nice and whipped and too far gone to fight, I do this anyway.”

The smile she released was monstrous, and the most Hermione could do was squirm and drip and laugh. Each pinch and dig into her ribs and belly came the usual ticklish discomfort, but afterwards she felt on fire and tingling. As if her skin were too tight.

When Bellatrix finally stopped she stood up, and Hermione found her sense of placement dizzyingly distorted. 

She squirmed, warm and exhausted.

Then found herself on her stomach and the chilling room air on her back.

_ Oh, oh no, wait! _

Fingers dug cruelty against her skin and she yelped, but then then drew downward, drawn to the small of her back which was so…  _ sensitive. _

She scarcely noticed the shuffle of a bag beyond her head. All she knew was sweet slick sensation of hands rubbing and pressing right at the base of her spine.

Hermione yowled.

That was enough to make Bellatrix pause, and had Hermione not been so busy trying to catch her breath she might have wondered at her expression. But the pause was subtle, a slight pause in the manipulation of her harsh massage, before she went back, pressing harder and deeper with a soft ‘hrm?’.

Hermione couldn’t help it, she bucked and made that odd sound again.

“How curious…”

One hand remained splayed against her back, softer now, rubbing up and down, teasing out the spots that made her gasp and cry out, while pleasure and  _ comfort _ rushed through her head, filling her body with the biological need to relax and submit.

To be dominated.

“Oh, oh!” Hermione gasped, growling as Bellatrix hit a  _ particular _ spot.

“Explain, nihil.” Bellatrix uttered softly, tone seductive and curious.

“I… w-when… When I was younger,” she said, thoughtless, wanting to answer, “there was an accident with some, ermmm…” she sighed and bucked into Bellatrix wandering hand, “accident with a potion. T-turned into a… almost a cat.”

“Tsk tsk, muddy.” Bellatrix rumbled, voice laced with just a bit of sadistic excitement. But dread did not reach Hermione. All she knew was need. “Then this might be a bit difficult for you. Especially since I need you to sit still.  _ Very still _ .”

Then she yelped as her arse was slapped, the stinging heat only  _ sharpening _ the pleasure as it wrapped around her arousal. 

“How precious, perhaps our time in my sisters home taught you more wicked delights that you yearn to remember.”

Pain and fire exploded from her arse again, the left cheek specifically, and Hermione knew that something  _ wasn’t right _ , that she should feel so utterly melted after those strikes. So at ease, and relaxed and  _ free _ knowing she had no control, not way to stop the paddling tool that swung upon her arse again. All she could do was absorb the pain, and that pain somehow consumed her, twisting through her being and showing her a hunger she never knew she had.

“I won’t apologize for it, the curse has twisted you, it’s forbidden for a reason you know.” Bellatrix twittered, ecstatic. “Besides, you really  _ are _ making my job harder. But I  _ so  _ enjoy putting you in your place. Drooling and writhing before me. Oh yes, I can’t wait to make you cry, nihil. I’ve missed your screams.”

Everything about that statement was wrong and yet her overstimulated body pulsed with nothing but want for it.

Then she felt something…  _ else. _

“A-ah,  _ ah! _ ”

“It’s alright,” Bellatrix whispered, “It’s not permanent. That’s what makes it so much  _ fun _ .”

A buzzing droned behind her, along with the ticklish needling  _ prick  _ of something drawing along her skin. Constantly plucking and picking at her flesh in tiny little portions. She was being, Bellatrix was--!!

“In a couple of weeks, my claim to your back will fade and we’ll need to do this again.” Bellatrix giggled, “And then, with each time, it’ll linger longer and longer, until you’ve forgotten that you were ever bare.”

Bellatrix carved gospel into her back, drew her needle along her spine and made twisting patterns there. Whenever she squirmed, whenever her body cried out from the pain and pleasure of being  _ inked _ further, Bellatrix wouldn’t hesitate to smack her arse with her paddle, setting her need to writhe and arch, but only for a little. All it did was drive the pressure, that wide gaping chasm in her mind, open wider and wider until she… until she really did fall, stumbling over the edge but floating upward in some topsy turvy sense of insanity. She’d never felt, never experienced,  _ flying _ so high within her own mind. Words, concepts, ideals, they lacked understanding. All that existed, all that had purpose, was the song in her body--

The one that Bellatrix put there as she hummed it in her ear.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

When Hermione ‘woke’, she ached. Her back buzzed and twitched, sore, but the pain had more or less dulled. Still, she was tired, to exhausted to open her eyes, to understand even that she’d been moved from the carpet to something softer, a bed.

What she did know was that Bellatrix was there, and that her nose twitched with the scent of something--lavender and something hazy… stone-smoke.

She whined, sighed, and tried to move, but felt… bound. Leather held her to her belly on the bed and she grunted, petulant but very… secure.

Controlled.

She moaned gently into the pillow that held her head.

“Ah, there you are.”

Hands engulfed her, and she had trouble keeping track of them. There were only two, she was sure of it, but sometimes those hands touched her back and drew lazy patterns on the--

“It’s beautiful, my work. I’ve gotten better at it. At the core of it, it’s a snake--”

\--possessive Slytherin--

“--but I can show you it later. Perhaps tomorrow. You’ll have to stay tonight, I’m sure. Though, it’ll cost you.”

A pause settled between them then, heavy but not uncomfortable, as those hands swept lower, down toward the heat of her sex, to  _ cup _ her then as she gasped softly, but barely twitched. She had… felt satisfied in an odd way. Still did. Mind floating. Head empty. Her body… had needs, and yet they weren’t driving her to madness. Instead, the heat felt weighty, as controlling as the hand that parted her lower lips gently and began to lightly stroke along the folds there. That hunger rolled lazily through her body, but she felt content to surrender it to Bellatrix.

“Very good, nihil.”

Hermione shivered and sighed.

“This,” Bellatrix squeezed her core, “belongs to me, your Lord, your Mistress. Only I can ease this heat, unless I give you permission otherwise.”

Hermione said nothing, she didn’t need too. 

“You will obey,” Bellatrix stated casually, delivering a slow delicious pinch to the throbbing clit between her legs. She moaned, responding, utterly held and ready to obey and lacking the energy to do otherwise.

Fingers continued to lazily explore her sex, and in her euphoric haze she felt something build. Her belly tightened and the ball of pleasure that beat at her mind began to expand. She whimpered and writhed, enjoying the sting of pain from her back and the casual way Bellatrix held her still whenever she moved to much, softly yet firmly commanding her wordlessly to settle.

“You’ll do much more than this soon, nihil, when I consume you completely. I can’t wait to see you on your knees, begging me to give your True-Self the freedom to surrender. You’ll fight it for a time, they always do, but deep down your muddy magic knows just what it needs and I know  _ exactly  _ what I want.”

Fingers spread her, then sunk further, sliding into her slit as they stroked along her trembling inner walls. Her breath caught as those fingers stretched her, teasing, testing their power.

“I’ll eventually add more mudbloods to my garden, though none of those nasty little creatures will be as beautiful in their surrender as you. It’ll be so easy, with the muggles beneath my control and their filthy little spawn eager to be acknowledged.” Bellatrix hissed with venom and possession. “And then…”

Here Bellatrix chuckled as she twisted her fingers slightly, adjusted her angle and--

“A-ah!”

Bellatrix chuckled then, “Well, you don’t need to know what we’ll do just yet. You’ve enough to learn as it is.”

Her soft gentle thrusting began to pick up speed and Hermione could do nothing more than surrender to the rhythm. She panted, and fisted what sheets she could grasp with her hands bound before her. She clenched and felt fulfilled in a way she had never experienced before. In a way that was  _ addicting _ . She was being touched, manipulated, played with by her… her…

“Mistress!” She gasped out.

Yes, it was addicting to surrender to her Mistress. To fight and struggle and deny until she fell back into hand, back into her proper  _ place _ .

“Good girl,” Bellatrix purred, “Now it’s time to teach you how to do something else.”

Her belly rolled with tension and Bellatrix easily coaxed from her prone position eager sounds of surrender. Yes,  _ yes!  _ She wanted to learn, desperately. She’d do anything to feel  _ alive _ and satisfied.

“You know what to do, don’t you? You’re already so wet…”

Hermione mewled and bucked, only to be pushed harder into the mattress as those fingers moved faster.

“I’m going to destroy you, muddy.  _ My _ muddy,” Bellatrix snarled. “Release for your Lord, slave.”

And then she  _ did _ .

  



End file.
